Falhill had to strain to remember. “Hrash above, it was the night after my parents were hanged. She was consoling me, and…” He shivered. “Why are you so interested all of a sudden?”
“I don’t mean to pry. Well, I suppose I am prying. But it’s between us men.”
“Have you visited the widow Zan?”
“I don’t have to pay for it.”
“Pay for it? What would men pay her now? We don’t use coins. Everything is rationed pretty generously to each family.”
“I don’t know. Perhaps expensive jewels, clothes, spices. Secrets.” Denhall gave a hearty laugh. “Or perhaps she’s offering discounts for now, just to lengthen her client list for when coins are minted.”
They left her doorstep, and Falhill told Denhall of the widow Zan’s testimony. Headed north past the line of farmsteads, Denhall noted, “If you believe her, then we have no suspects.”
“She said Dreahall and Rudrud passed by that night. What were they doing out at such a late hour?”
“Drea’s grandson? And the simpleton harpist?” Denhall grinned. “I guess it could have been Rudrud. When there’s no motive you can think of, look to the man whose head isn’t screwed on just right.”
“How are we going to question Rudrud? He can’t speak unless he’s singing. Do you think there’s a melody that goes: ‘I did it! I did it! I killed the cleric Traamis! I did it! I did it! A rock and then a cheese knife!’”
The two of them laughed — even the soldier Rudfynhill chuckled.
Once the farms receded on the horizon, and the Northwood shot up from the ground, the congressers resolved to keep their voices low. Only two groups had yet ventured into the Northwood:
General Laebm Lionheart had led some armed men deep into the woods, searching for signs of natives or resources. They withdrew when they attracted a black bear out of her den. They killed it, carried it south, and cooked it on the beach.
The second time a group had ventured north, it was to find Falhill’s nephew. Little Primhall had cried the whole sea voyage north. When he finally got off Beautiful Yaangdhadn, he cried on the new shore. Primhall was inconsolable, so he ran into the forest. Falhill, Primhill, Falhadn, Denhall, and two dozen more searched for three hours before they heard him crying in an oak tree.
But when they found Primhall, they also found an unnatural structure, ringed in foreign runes. Someone had built the round edifice — many solar cycles past.
So Falhill and Denhall — and Rudfynhill — returned to investigate the structure deep in the woodlands. “We’re nearly there,” Denhall said. Denhall the Debauched had been a hunter, Falhill remembered. Before he became governor of Enesma and later congresser of Hrashhill, he had built up quite a reputation for tracking and living off the land. “West by northwest.” He pointed.
Falhill exhaled. “These woods make my neck tense.”
“Nothing to fear, Congresser.” The sun spilled individual rays onto the forest floor, but shadows sat everywhere. “Except whoever built that.” From behind a thick oak, the two-story building emerged from hiding. The rounded structure sported incomprehensible shapes all the way around. The beige of the sandstone contrasted with the dim blue of the ring of shapes.
Slumswain cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should fetch another soldier while we search the premises?”
Denhall snickered. “Backup? You’re our backup. We’ll be fine.”
They entered through an opening where a door should have been. Inside, cobwebs draped over empty tables. Dust blanketed old unused parchment. Denhall opened a rotting cask, and its contents filled the round room with a pungent malodor. Salted beef had turned sour in the cask. Falhill asked, “How long does it take salted beef to putrefy like that?”
No one answered, and they continued to search the room for any hints about the builders. A thin shelf rimmed the outer wall. Cabinets every few feet. Rusted hinges. Grime and mold in every cranny.
The cabinets contained old scrolls and inkpots, mold in the shape of food, colored marbles, rusty knickknacks, a doll, and a withered painting. Rudfynhill guessed the knick knacks could be navigational equipment. Falhill examined the frayed doll. Somewhat odd, but it could easily be a doll made in Old Coast. Denhall blew the dust from the painting and remarked, “Well, they look like us.”
Painted onto the waning canvas, a young woman with long brown hair and unnaturally bright blue eyes. A laugh frozen in time. Her thin lips parted ever so slightly to reveal a typical set of teeth. Her bust showed garish gold and green fabrics, and her left shoulder was outfitted to look like a purple porcupine. Her thin black eyebrows had been fashioned into a wave.
Denhall sighed. “Their idea of beautiful women isn’t wholly unlike ours.”
“She looks like Falhadn,” Falhill said. “Let’s leave all this here. We’ll inform the congress of everything we find, and then the seven of us can decide what to do with all of this.”
“Obviously, this place hasn’t been visited for years. By the decay, it may have been a decade or two.”
“So Traamis’s attacker isn’t some foreigner,” Falhill said with a sardonic smile.
They made for the steep stairway. A click clack against the stone floor echoed down the thin hallway which circled the main room. Another click clack. Heavy breathing. The three men stopped and turned. An indistinct shadow cast down the curved wall. The wind outside ruffled the leaves. Heavy breathing. Click clack. The building quaked, faintly. Falhill’s heart beat twice as fast. They only wanted us to think they were gone.
Slumswain unsheathed his steel, and the shadow shook its head. The creature stood on all fours. Click clack. Heavy breathing. A thick sneeze. Rudfynhill whispered, “Black bear.”
The bear charged around the corner, and the three of them retreated up the claustrophobic stairway. But the bear ran faster. Slumswain swung his sword like he had swung his throwing anchor in the river tourney. It clanged against the sandstone wall. Dust shot from the wall, and the bear sneezed again. Enough time for Falhill and Denhall to trip into the upper room. Mostly empty. Only a massive circular table filled the second floor. Cupboards snuck seamlessly into the rough walls.
Rudfynhill stumbled up the stairs as Falhill and Denhall drew their shortswords. The bear leapt into the room, and Rudfynhill narrowly avoided its claws. The bear knocked over more strange navigational equipment. Its yellow eyes fixed on Falhill. He bent his knees and held his shortsword horizontal. As the bear ran full force towards Falhill, Rudfynhill slashed at its hind legs. Though the steel made contact, it did not wound the beast, who had turned from Falhill to face the soldier.
“Go back to the hellfire you spawned from—” The bear soared through the musty air, and Rudfynhill rolled away. But its claws managed to rip at the soldier’s left thigh. He let out a curse.
Denhall lunged at the beast, distracted by its wounded prey. Denhall’s shortsword plunged into the bear’s hindquarters. The fell beast flinched. It tripped Denhall with its injured hind leg. Denhall’s sword remained lodged in the beast.
Falhill needed to drag both Hunter Denhall and the famed Slumswain to safety, but he could only choose one. Unless he fought. He shouted and charged. He saw the bear stand on two legs, and Falhill knew he had made a fatal mistake. But the beast had forgotten Denhall’s sword. The steel shifted in its hindquarters, and the black beast faltered. Falhill sunk his shortsword into the bear’s chest. He could hear the flesh split, feel the sinew part. The black bear’s yellow eyes blinked. Its paws flailed weakly, and its body collapsed to the floor with a boom thud.
Falhill’s sword had remained in the beast’s chest as it fell, but Falhill stood petrified. His lungs finally expanded, and he could breathe again.
Denhall’s left arm would soon bruise, and Rudfynhill’s thigh needed wrapping, but the trio let out a collective sigh. Falhill remembered back to Enesma — the rush of blood, the song of steel, the triumph of cheating death.
Denhall the Debauched removed the two swords from
the warm carcass. “I don’t know if we can carry him back by ourselves.”
Falhill retrieved some linen from his waistpouch and wrapped Soldier Rudfynhill’s wound. Slumswain winced. “It’ll be worth it to feed a few dozen.”
Still uneasy, Falhill focused on keeping his hands steady. “Falhadn won’t believe that I’m the one who killed it.”
“Easy now. Without the both of us, bits of you would have been in between those teeth.” Denhall caught his breath. “You don’t think a bear attacked Traamis, huh?”
Chapter seven
Sister Killer
Falhill’s hand rested comfortably in Falhadn’s, and sweat oozed from both. Congresser Balgray walked with her son Jiridhill. The four of them marched alongside the Azure Artery, having donned the grins of casual passersby. Their steps were rushed, but they did not want to alarm any onlookers. The four of them walking towards the shore reminded Falhill of the same four together in Enesma, except that Primhadn had been with them. Raucous laughter, playful screams — the commoners knew not why the four of them headed for the south bank.
Falhadn shot her husband a quick smile, nervous and excited. Falhill knew his wife resented him for not seizing the power Drea Drysword left unclaimed when he fell unconscious. But if Drea had truly awoken, if he grew strong again, there was no power to seize that wouldn’t have returned to Drea. Our marriage could return to normal, he hoped — though his neck tensed at the thought.
On the horizon arose Beautiful Yaangdhadn, the fat barge which had carried Falhill to these pilgrim shores. The paved road ceased, and the four walked on rocky soil. Then sand. Then wet sand. The tide had yet to come in. Laborer Nudntryhill and his family had constructed a simple oaken dock which connected the coastline to the gangplank.
Rudfynhill stood sentinel at the dock. Upon spotting Falhill and his party, Rudfynhill’s face lit up. “Good morning, congressers! And good tidings!”
An hour past, Soldier Jiridhill had been keeping guard of the docks with Rudfynhill when Dreahall burst from below deck with news of his grandfather’s arousal. Jiridhill gathered his mother Balgray, and she gathered her close friend Falhill to come see the revivification. “This will burn King Kraek’s porridge,” Balgray had said. “He and Theral wanted one of their shared brood on the congress.”
Now they would see it with their own eyes — their salvation from corruption. Rudfynhill escorted the four up the gangplank, below deck, and to the Drysword’s roomy quarters, where he had now slept for weeks. Falhill expected to see Drea’s friend, Soldier Shelwyn, protecting him.
But Drea had guests Falhill did not expect.
To Soldier Rudfynhill, he whispered, “I thought no one else had heard of Drea’s recovery?”
“Balhenhill and his wife came to sit by the Drysword’s bedside and pray, they told me. The grandson Dreahall had no objection, so I thought they were allies to the congresser.”
A witch and her familiar, Falhill thought, but he held his tongue.
Balhenhill and his wife looked up to the four in the doorway. “Friends!” Balhenhill greeted.
“He is awake, only resting.” The wife Balhenhadn sported a thumb-sized mole on her smooth cheek, but she was otherwise beautiful. Her unkempt black hair fell to her petite waist, where sagged metal ringlets and woven silk of many colors. Her husband sat tall and confident, but he was a homelier sight — naturally red-faced with shaggy dark auburn hair. Sinew pinched his features so much, it appeared bumblebees had stung him all over. Falhill always shaved because he could never grow a full beard, but Balhenhill had tried and failed. The couple was five or so years younger than Falhill and Falhadn.
Balgray replied, “Balhenhill, Balhenhadn, we did not expect you.”
“We did not expect to find Drea in such a healthy state,” Balhenhill answered for both him and his wife. “We offered to pray for the congresser every day, and Dreahall welcomed the idea. Thank Hrash he is alive!”
Drea did not look particularly alive. The only indication of life was a soft snore. Falhill stared at his mentor, avoiding the gaze of Balhenhill and his wife. “May we rouse him?”
“If you must,” answered the wife. “I rubbed soothing balms on his lips — aloe and beeswax. He should be comfortable as can be expected.”
Before Falhill could ask Shelwyn to escort the couple outside, Dreahall scurried down the outer corridor, pails of water in both hands. “Falhill? Balgray? I went to fetch my grandfather water. I didn’t know you were on your way.”
Balgray’s son took one of the heavy pails, visibly uncomfortable at the sight of Herbalist Balhenhadn. “False Priest,” Balgray had told Falhill a few days ago. “Balhenhadn left her husband for nigh on a year to train in the arcane dark arts. When she returned home to Meireer, it was beside six hundred kingsmen, searching for Traamis the True and hungry for blood.”
Although Falhill worried a False Priest had infiltrated their midst, he trusted Drea to choose his friends with care. If the famous Drysword trusted Balhenhill and his witch wife, Falhill would trust them.
Falhadn told Dreahall, “Your grandfather’s guests were only just leaving.”
The couple had already arisen, ambling past stone-faced Shelwyn, towards the exit. “My wife and I cannot express how happy we are. Drea Drysword will lead this colony into prosperity. He is wise but daring, shrewd but kind. The congress is prudently comprised.” Balhenhill nodded as he led his shifty-eyed wife from Drea’s roomy quarters.
Once out of earshot, the six broke into overlapping murmurs. As Balgray and Falhadn berated Dreahall for letting that witch watch over Drea, Jiridhill and Falhill shouted at Rudfynhill and Shelwyn for allowing them in.
“Congresser Drea admitted them entry before he fell unconscious, the day we dropped anchor,” Shelwyn answered.
Dreahall rebutted simultaneously, “Shelwyn tells it true. Grandfather’s wishes were clear; he trusts Balhenhill.”
Falhadn scoffed. “It’s not Balhenhill I’m worried about. It’s that sorceress on his arm. Everyone knows she worships demons.”
“That is not true.”
“Are you bedding the witch, Dreahall? Is that why you convinced your father to let her rub him with balms?” Falhadn said the word like it was dog’s vomit.
“Enough,” Falhill whispered. “I do not wish to overwhelm your grandfather. Give us the pail, and we will step inside. Rudfynhill, stand lookout in the corridor.”
“But,” Dreahall began, “all my things are in there. I sleep in the next bed over.”
Falhadn replied for her husband, “Don’t you have some enchantress to fondle?”
Dreahall wanted to hit Falhill’s wife. Falhill reflected on how he would react if Dreahall did hit her. He did not relish the prospect. Instead, Apprentice Dreahall threw the second pail of water at Falhadn’s feet and stormed above deck.
Falhadn had jumped from the small bucket. She smirked at Falhill. “I can’t say I didn’t deserve that.”
Slumswain stood lookout in the outer corridor while Falhill, Falhadn, Balgray, and Jiridhill gathered around Drea’s bed. Shelwyn found some stools for Falhadn and Jiridhill. Falhill and Balgray sat where Balhenhill and his wife had placed a couple of worn birch stools. Falhill placed his hand on Drea’s left arm, jarring it slightly. “Congresser? Drysword, it’s Falhill. And Balgray. We heard you were recovering.”
Faint snoring gave way to a loud snort, which startled everyone. “Myrnra?! Myrnra, it was dark!” Drea had opened his gray eyes and sat up as far as he could. “Falhill?” he whimpered.
Falhill had recovered from the start. “It’s me, Drea. Myrnra isn’t here. It’s me and Balgray. And we brought Falhadn. And Jiridhill. You remember them?”
Drea breathed in and out — hummingbird quick, then slower and slower until his respiration normalized. His lucidity was quick to return as well. “I know Myrnra isn’t here,” he said sharply. “We lived together again, in my dreams.” Falhill smiled sadly. He knew Drea had married Myrnra half a century ago. When
long ago the Drysword saved Princess Thamhadn, she offered one of her noble bedmaids. They wed, then fell in love. Her lungs went bad one winter, but not before their one son married. That son married and begat Dreahall. Dreahall’s parents had died by now, but Drea had raised his grandson well.
“Is Dreahall here?”
“No, he went to fetch something or other.” Falhill knew that Myrnra died twenty-five years back — as many years as they had been married in the first place. To live without someone as long as you had lived with them, Falhill could not imagine. It had only been four years since his own marriage, but Falhadn was already his every morning and his every night. All he did was for Falhadn — her love and her protection.
“I am happy you came.”
Balgray answered, “We are happy you are happy.”
“How long?”
Falhill and Balgray looked to one another, then their companions. Falhill turned his eyes back to the septuagenarian. “A fortnight since we landed ashore. Half of us have rudimentary roofs to sleep under. The rest continue to live out of the ships. Much else has occurred.”
“Tell me all.”
“Someone attempted to murder high cleric Traamis.”
Drea’s eyes widened, and he looked to his left. “Traamis the True? Who could ever want to slay a man as devout and beloved as Traamis?”
“Denhall and I investigated. To no avail, I’m afraid.”
“Denhall the Debauched? Denhall, the atheist? You had the godless hothead investigate the attempted murder of the high cleric and our foremost war hero?”
Falhadn stepped forward, red-faced. “Denhall was the only congresser who was untainted with bias! You yourself agreed to him acting as the community’s justice and sheriff.”
“I didn’t imagine there would be so many criminals to join us on these shores.”
“So many?” Falhill repeated. “What do you mean?”
Drea sat up slightly and glanced at Shelwyn, who nodded in return. “What a coincidence that I fall so ill right as we come upon this virgin coast. Right before I was meant to lead.”
The Heirs of History: A Nation From Nothing Page 9